


Broken

by PaintingthePeoniesRed



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, And isnt a heartless bitch, Angst, Grief/Mourning, He's actually a good person at heart, Implied Sexual Content, Loss, Love, M/M, Suicide Attempt, Val has feelings, and his heart is about to be fucking broken, idk you be the judge, kind of written in an almost poetic way, no seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintingthePeoniesRed/pseuds/PaintingthePeoniesRed
Summary: Suddenly, he was there. In the consul’s room, at the palace, well past any decent hour that could even possibly offer some innocent explanation for his intentions. Valerius stood frozen, answering his small talk with curt yet flowery words of his own, tracking his motions with the acute wariness of prey in the clutches of a predator that circled him, walking behind him, making the trapped creature wonder if he should stop him, ask him to leave, run, do someth— oh.His hands……his warm, strong hands, on the consul’s waist….no, hips, now.Oh.One moment blended into the next with only the soft sound of Valerius’ breaths and heartbeat between them as the Count waited for encouragement, for permission, to go on…
Relationships: Lucio/Valerius (The Arcana)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

A subtle glance over the banquet table in the candlelight.

A lean over him as he sat at his study, working and drinking, knowing the Count cared not for his work, and so he was utterly at a loss for an explanation for these late-night visits.

He sat through these advances without batting an eye, maintaining his persona as the epitome of decorum, without a button out of place or a loose strand of hair that wasn’t meant to be there. Lucio was excessive, he knew, and flirtatious with anyone that walked on two legs and had even the potential for beauty. These looks meant nothing. And so, the consul went about his day with a cold efficiency about him.

Suddenly, _he_ was there. In the consul’s room, at the palace, well past any decent hour that could even possibly offer some innocent explanation for his intentions. Valerius stood frozen, answering his small talk with curt yet flowery words of his own, tracking his motions with the acute wariness of prey in the clutches of a predator that circled him, walking behind him, making the trapped creature wonder if he should stop him, ask him to leave, run, _do someth_ — _oh._

His hands……his warm, strong hands, on the consul’s waist…no, hips, now.

_Oh._

One moment blended into the next with only the soft sound of Valerius’ breaths and heartbeat between them as the Count waited for encouragement, for permission, to go on…

… _Ba-dum._

_Hhh._

_…_

_Hhh. Ba-dum._

_…_

_Hhh. Ba-dum._

_… Ba-dum._

_…………ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum……_

He nodded.

It was quick, short, but in this way he opened himself to Lucio: first his legs, then his heart.

He berated and drowned himself in alcohol the next morning when the Count left, asking himself how he could’ve been so stupid to let himself fall victim as one of Lucio’s _conquests_ , just another one in a million others, forgotten with lost interest after the victory.

But Lucio came _back._

He came back, a week later, then four days, then three, then the next….a one-time occurrence became a pattern, and one by one, his other lovers faded and flickered out into the distance like fireflies flying away for the winter, never to return again till summer. Only this winter was _warm._ It was heated, and gentle, and…… _dare I use the word?_

_Loving._

It was loving.

No one had touched Valerius in this way before. No one touched him, looked at him, as if he were anything more than an alcoholic, workaholic, selfish, good-for-nothing grouch of a man worthy of nothing but their disdain and mere tolerance. It was new, it was kind, and he found himself looking forward to these nights of lovemaking at the end of a long day, sometimes lying beneath the Count, sometimes — on rare occasions — taming him and pinning him (though Lucio could easily have reversed their positions if he’d wanted to) and dominating him as no one else in Vesuvia was ever allowed to do. He got himself tangled hopelessly in this mess of a web called “love,” more trapped and tied up and rapidly losing any possible reason to want to end it. No….the opposite: he wanted more. He wanted Lucio, he needed Lucio, he needed the Count to be his and vice versa. It went on, and on, for months, until Lucio surprised the consul and asked for something he hadn’t before.

He asked to cuddle.

He asked to hold Valerius, to kiss him chastely, to fall asleep with him in his arms, telling him he loved him.

_Loved him?_

Valerius stood frozen, again, but with much less internal debate this time complied and curled into him awkwardly, drawing a chuckle from the Count, who, with a quick, sudden motion, turned them over so he was spooning the consul. This was new.

But……Valerius, maybe, with time……liked it. A lot.

_Do you love me?_

_Do I?_

Another moment, another breath, another heartbeat.

…

_Ba-dum._

_…_

_I do._

_Awwww, Val, I love you too._

And Valerius, for the first time in a _very_ long time in his life, smiled.

But then the Count had the audacity to go off and _die._

To leave him. To leave, never to return, never to wink, smile, tease, or kiss the touch-starved consul again.

He left. Like that.

Without a word of warning, without a goodbye kiss or a last “I love you,” without the promise that they’d ever see each other again.

And Valerius was _furious._

He raged about his day, smashing countless wineglasses and drowning himself in more wine than ever, picking up those bottles that had gone unused, forgotten in his lovesick time with the Count and downing them in record time.

His hair he kept in a tidy braid, without even his signature artfully-loose strands — no, everything was tied up until his scalp hurt, in braids then buns tucked away so tightly it was barely able to be seen that his hair was blond at the ends, tucked away so no one could touch it again, no one could run their fingers through it again.

It wasn’t as if anyone that might have ever tried could’ve compared to Lucio’s gentleness, his reverence, his surprising kindness when he had, anyway.

He locked himself up in his study, busy with managing his new duties as Vesuvia’s new ruler, until his eyes were dry from sleepless nights and wasted dreams of the future; that future which had once looked so promising and happy was now bleak and desolate and stained with sangria.

He shut himself in his palace room in a dazed, watery-eyed fury, daring to go back after weeks and weeks (but felt like years) of escaping the place to instead sleep (on those few occasions that he did) in his manor, despite the inconvenience. He could remember that first night so clearly. He threw his wine glass against the mirror above his old vanity table, shattering both the glass and the mirror. He wanted to throw himself on the bed, to bury himself in pillows and sheets and escape this torment, but _Lucio had been in the bed, once upon a time._

He ran to a corner instead and curled up with his back against the wall and his knees to his chest, leaning against the adjoining wall to the side of him and shutting his eyes.

He didn’t know why he’d come here. It was painful, more so than he ever imagined, and he wanted to burn it all.

He cracked open his eye to see a sharp, long shard of the smashed mirror lying in front of him, and wondered…would it be so bad to point it to his chest, between his third and fourth ribs? Would it be painful, would it take long?

It couldn’t be more painful than this.

His eyes flickered up to the sheets hanging off the edge of the bed, and he could still remember how they’d felt beneath his sweaty, panting body, how Lucio’s hand had felt when it trailed up his bare side. How his lips felt on his shoulder, his neck, his own lips, and on those chaste nights, how warm it was in Lucio’s arms, how nice it was to be loved, protected, cared for……

He yelled and shut his eyes again, reaching blindly for the broken piece of the mirror.

_It’s as broken as I am._

He picked it up and with another few deep breaths, unbuttoned his tunic and unlaced his shirt, baring his chest, placing the cold tip to his skin.

_…_

_Hhh._

…

Time stood still.

…

_Hhh._

…

Just as it had that first night, that fateful, first night.

…

_Hhh._

…

He yelled again and threw it away, breaking into sobs, curling in on himself and clutching his hands together at his chest, in front of his heart, his tears falling in pathetic drops onto the floor.

_Lucio wouldn’t want me to do this. He’d want me to rule, to be strong. He’d want me to pick myself up and keep going._

_I can’t fail him, I can’t, I don’t have anything else._

There was no one else who cared for him, no one else who loved him, and he knew he could never love like that again, so totally, so completely, with everything he had in his wretched body.

Wretched, yet somehow beloved, once. _Somehow._

He cried out again until his voice was hoarse, his face red and body shaking.

_I’ll go on._

_For you, I will._

And he did.

Though if he smiled again, if he laughed and ever let himself fall victim to someone else’s affections…………………it will have been a miracle, indeed.


	2. Fixed

It had been three months since the Count’s untimely death.

Valerius held the papers in his hands, sitting in his place before the throne and the podium set up before it, staring down at them and their flawless handwriting blankly. A few words were smudged with patches of dried water, whose origin was only too clear from the once-again watering eyes of the consul.

He stood up once Vlastomil stepped down from the podium, glaring at him when the praetor patted his back. Valerius wasn’t sure if it was meant to be reassuring or condescending, or straight-up _mocking,_ but whatever the intention, the contact was unwanted. He shrugged off Vlastomil’s hand, stepping up with unparalleled grace, perfect posture, and — with the exception of the empty look in his eyes — an unfeeling, stony, solemn expression. His hair was in his now-usual bun, on the very center of the back of his head, held in place on this particular day by two gold pins with rubies dangling from the tops with gold chains — in memory of _him_.

_He gave them to me._

He took a deep, shaky breath, and looked out over the room and the crowd.

The wide array of expressions was outright appalling. The majority of people gathered looked appropriately solemn, dressed in black (respectfully, as he had, though this was his usual garb now), and looking back up at him with patience and encouragement. _You are strong,_ they seemed to say, _you can speak._ Valerius wasn’t sure he could, but shifted his gaze, looking towards the back. There, countless plebeians gathered, whose looks ranged from boredom to mockery and then to a handful of children looking _glad._ They’d known the Count as a terrible, wasteful ruler who cared not for them or for anyone — only for his money, status, and infamous parties.

_They never knew him._

Valerius shifted his gaze once more to the front of the room, where the richest and the highest-ranked of the nobility were seated (not standing). Vlastomil had a look about him that seemed to give off an air of importance and false grief, pretending he was devastated. Vulgora was arguing under their breath with the Quaestor, and Volta was eyeing her own stomach sadly, muttering something under her breath (to which her stomach responded with an equally pitiful growl).

Valerius wrinkled his nose with disdain and growing hatred for those four. How dare they?! They, who were supposed to have been the Count’s closest advisors, his friends, who he’d chosen to give power to! He wanted to slap them each across the face, including Valdemar (who he’d been somewhat scared of, to be honest), if not worse.

Well…..now, he could, technically, as Vesuvia’s new ruler.

He cleared his throat and looked out over the room after glancing back at his prepared speech. Since Lucio’s body hadn’t been found since his disappearance, except his alchemical arm, his arm was lying in a white, marble coffin with gold inlay, which Valerius had ordered knowing the Count would’ve approved. It was his style, after all. Once the service was over, it was to be paraded solemnly through the streets in flowers, for all to see. The rest of the room was much as it had always been, because the consul had been too absorbed in his own emotions and worry and stress and _grief_ to care for decorations. The speech was difficult enough. The only differences were the chairs in the front, which had usually faced outwards towards the people, were now directed towards the throne and the speaker — the largest and most centered of which had been removed into a corner, empty, as its previous owner now sat in a larger chair.

It had been hard…so, so very hard....to sit in. It was comfortable, oh, yes, but every time he sat he felt _wrong,_ as if he didn’t belong there. It was too large, too comfortable, too....cold, for Valerius to like.

The only times he’d sat on it, there had been another person beneath him, pulling him onto his lap and kissing his neck (among other things, lower down, if you catch my meaning).

Luckily, he didn’t need to sit in it now. Though, unfortunately, he had to do something harder: he needed to stand, and speak.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Someone in the crowd coughed.

He looked up searchingly, looking for the origin of the noise absentmindedly as he truly searched for his voice, and for someone to hold him as he did this, to hug him from behind and tell him he could.

He’d grown _weak_ in his time with the Count.

He stiffed and took another deep breath, and began. His voice wavered and cracked, despite his efforts to keep it under control....it was as if he were attempting to divert a flood by sheer willpower. Though, at least, the literal flood of his tears he was managing to control very well.

So far.

He spoke of Lucio’s duties as Count, of his good qualities in terms of the job, of his bad qualities (however few they were), and of his parties. He told stories — some funny, some to prove a point, and some sad — when he felt he was losing his audience, to bring them back, yet through it all his face was stony.

It hurt.

It all hurt so much, he felt his heart was gasping for breath and for _life_ with every beat, every word of his draining it a little more so he was near-panicking for fear he’d faint before he reached the end of his speech.

_I promised I would be strong!_

He paused before his last bit, taking another deep breath, this one shaking violently as it filled him and then left him cold and alone, as he felt.

He took another one, and opened his mouth to speak, holding his breath a little with his mouth open like that, choosing his words carefully (despite their being written down).

“And, through what I’ve told you, that is how all of you knew him: Vesuvia’s Count, whether you liked him or not, but I ask: did any of you ever know him as a person?” He looked around, searchingly, with an almost challenging gaze. “Did you know him not as your superior, but as your equal, as a man?”

A pause.

“I have. And he was the kindest, most understanding man I’ve ever met. He could see a person not as they wished to be outwardly perceived and treated, but as they wanted to on the inside, as they really, truly were. He saw what no one else could, and no one will ever see again.”

He took another deep breath, a traitorous tear falling down his face, disobeying his hardest will and splashing onto the pages in front of him.

He heard not the murmurs from the back of the room, or saw the movement.

“He _loved_ as no one else could, and no one will ever love again.”

The murmurs and gasps got louder, and the crowd parted, but still the consul didn’t notice.

“Despite his smirk and hardened will and appearance, he was soft, and kind, and understanding, and he was unbelievably gentle. None of you would believe me — and I do not blame you for it — if I attempted to describe how gentle and soft he was. When his sparkling eyes and infuriating grin were gone, they were replaced with that kindness I speak of, that love.” He gave a small laugh. “And despite his years as a mercenary, and —" _his perfect, chiseled body with muscles befitting of Achilles,_ Valerius caught himself about to say, recovering with a red face — “his background before that, his skin was soft. Soft, I tell you, like I say of his character, beneath the gaudy gems and frivolous furs, feathers, and medallions. He loved me,” the consul continued, not realizing how he’d slipped and admitted their love in front of everyone, “and I—"

He looked up.

His jaw dropped, and he paled.

…

_Ba-dum._

…

Count Lucio stood in the front of the room before him, his remaining arm on his hip, looking as though he’d just been in his room and was fresh and ready for the day, wearing his brightest and most sparkly outfit with the stupidest grin Valerius had ever seen in all his time knowing him.

“NO! Go on! Val, come on, don’t stop there, _continue_ , dammit!”

“..............I….....”

…

_Ba-dum._

_…_

_Ba-dum._

_…_

_Ba-dum._

_…_

_...................._

“............................WHERE WERE YOU?!” Valerius stepped off the podium, his face, which had not a moment before been white as a sheet, red, furious once again. “WHAT HAPPENED, HOW, WHY…?! **_ANSWER ME!_** _”_

“I got lost.” Lucio pursed his lips.

Valerius’ face fell, and his eyes narrowed, looking for all the world like a father just told his child had been playing in the mud and ruined a brand-new, expensive outfit: a mixture of mad, annoyed, disbelieving, processing, and yet through it all — if one looked closely — shining with an unstoppable joy that was bubbling higher with every passing second.

_“……you GOT LOST?! FOR THREE MONTHS?!”_

Lucio nodded. “I got _very_ lost. In the woods.” He smirked, raising his arm and flexing his bicep. “Don’t worry, none of the bears in there were brave enough to mess with this, so I’m alright,” he laughed, looking at the coffin. “Looks to me as though my arm had a much better time than I did. Though, Val, really? There’s no feast, or even a single golden chandelier lit! I’m so glad I arrived at my funeral just in time to tell you, or when I _really_ go, it might’ve been just as boring as this…!”

Valerius was fuming again, not sure whether to laugh or cry. “Yes, well, when someone dies, _usually_ they don’t ever see their funeral, and I was a LITTLE BUSY MOURNING YOU, AND TAKING CARE OF YOUR JOB!” He stepped down until he was off the platform that held the throne, level with Lucio, but stopped. “NOT TO MENTION ORGANIZING THE REST OF THIS, LOOKING FOR A REPLACEMENT CONSUL, FOR — THANKS TO YOUR DISAPPEARANCE — I HAD THE JOB OF TWO, AND KEEPING VESUVIA FROM SINKING INTO MADNESS! SO DON’T YOU DARE SHOW UP AND _LECTURE ME_ ABOUT PLANNING _YOUR_ FUNERAL WHEN YOU WERE THE ONE WHO HAD TO GO OFF AND DIE!”

“Awww, Val, I— “

“A-AND….AND…AND………AND _HEARTBREAK! YOU LEFT ME! YOU LEFT ME WITHOUT TELLING ME ONE LAST TIME YOU LOVED ME, OR WITHOUT A GOODBYE KISS, OR_ — "

He was cut off by Lucio’s lips on his, warm and possessive. They didn’t let him go, instead drawing him further in as a hand snaked around his waist. At first, Valerius struggled, red at such a _public_ display, but eventually he gave in, kissing him back and closing his eyes, wrapping his arms around the Count’s shoulders, sighing. The arm around his waist slid up his back to his hair (as his own slid down to the Count’s waist and hips), pulling out the pins and tossing them to the floor, letting the consul’s hair cascade down his back and then running his fingers through it.

Valerius didn’t notice the whispers, the murmurs, the gasps or even the noises of teenage girls squealing and fangirling at the lovers’ reunion.

_Lucio is alive. He’s here._

Valerius was openly crying with joy, closing his eyes and shaking when Lucio cupped his face, turning his head to press into his hands more closely.

Lucio wore the most infuriating smile the consul had ever seen. “You missed that, didn’t you? Me running my fingers through your hair.” His smile widened into a grin.

Correction: _this_ was now the most infuriating grin Valerius had ever seen.

“What were you about to say on the podium? When you noticed me, and then stopped?”

Valerius turned red and tried to look away, but Lucio’s hands held his head in place, bringing him closer to press their foreheads together. “No, stop, _not now_ , you idio—”

“Awwww, Val, come on, you know you want to……” His hands ran through the consul’s hair again, but kept going lower, while his voice got higher and sing-song, as well as louder. “Say it, come on, say it, _cupcake_ …!”

“I LOVE YOU!” Valerius squeaked — loudly — to which he earned a soft smile, and another kiss, as well as a chuckle.

“Love you too, Val. I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW THIS ISN'T MUCH IN CHARACTER.  
> Shhhhhhhhh.  
> Let me fangirl in peace.........

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for one of my closest internet friends. She and I are on a discord Arcana server (two servers, actually), and we RP on that server a lot. I am Val, and she is Lucio. We decided to RP as if Lucio and Val actually had something between them, something real and nice and gentle (though also a little steamy at times ;) ).  
> 


End file.
